


Addressed to the Damn Doctor

by ElloPoppet



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Bones, Bones is a Doctor Dammit, Fluff, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Pining, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Spock is Trying, T'hy'la, Vulcan Culture, that necklace is a tracking device Spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: Spock writes McCoy a letter of confession, despite not quite knowing how to write a love letter. McCoy thinks Spock writes love letters just fine, thank you.





	

"Leonard,

You are a doctor. That fact is indisputable. 

You have completed the courses necessary to know how the human body functions, and you have even mastered this same knowledge as it applies to species that are quite alien to your native Georgia, Earth.

You have honed your medical skills through practice, dedication, and long nights bent over lab equipment and tricorders. Your expertise lies not only in the inner workings of organic tissues, but also within the processes of technology. 

The diplomas, certificates and licenses that most would proudly display in their Medbay office are no doubt folded and creased in a box within your quarters. These pieces of paper exist to inform others that you are, indeed, a doctor. 

There are many things which you are not, as you are so eager to remind the Captain on a semi-regular basis. 

I am certainly aware that you are not the following:

An engineer

A mechanic

A magician

A maid

A coal miner

A bartender

A pilot

A torpedo technician

A moon-shuttle conductor

A babysitter

A bricklayer

Nor are you an escalator.

I recall overhearing you informing the Captain last evening that you are a doctor, and not a “blushing lady of the night, dammit!”

The fact that you are not a female human is rather evident without explanation, Doctor. I cannot help but hypothesize that the amber liquor consumed between yourself and the Captain following Alpha shift assisted the Captain in his mistake to suggest otherwise.

It concerns me that one of two things must be true. The first, that you believe the notion that the Captain often forgets your title and profession. The alternative would stand that the Captain, in actuality, does forget your title and profession, quite frequently. I am unsure which scenario would be more concerning. Regardless, you are both illogical in either context, as is typical. 

I do apologize, Doctor. I did not intend to become distracted by addressing that which you are not. It is my endeavor with this correspondence to make you aware of all of the things that I consider you to be. 

In no meaningful or purposeful order, the following statements outline things which I do consider you to be, aside from a satisfactory physician, of course:

You are a poet.

Whether or not you have the ability to form rhyming or flowing verses comprised of words is irrelevant. You are not a traditional poet; rather, your hands are the epicenter of the poetry which you create. Upon observing your actions as a dutiful doctor, I have been privy to witnessing the rhythm and fluidity of your hands. The dexterity and strength of your fingers produce intricate and captivating movements that stir within me a reaction not unlike that which I experience when reading classical Earth poetry, such as Shakespeare, or T.S. Eliot. 

You are a dancer.

I do not speak of the movements that you called ‘Square Dancing’ as you were trying to instruct Mr. Scott how to “draw attention of the Southern gals back home.” Rather, I speak concerning your body. Your body is an extension of your talented hands. Whether it is appropriate or something entirely other, I have struggled with maintaining focus and concentration on my work when I am within your vicinity. I am captivated by artful aesthetics; the way that your muscles remain defined beneath your uniform and bend with your often quick and purposeful strides can only be described as artful. Dancers use their bodies to convey stories and emotion; you, Doctor, speak so much, whether through your facial expressions, forceful motions, or languid movements when you appear relaxed or playful. As a physician, you must be owner to a stern and beautiful mind. These same qualities have bled into your physical appearance, as well. 

You are a weightlifter.

Creating metaphors and speaking symbolically are not strengths that I possess. I do not refer to the weights in the ship gym, although I suppose it is also possible that you lift weights in that capacity as well. I find that I am uncertain of most of your hobbies and interests. I shall endeavor to learn more. That aside, I turn to the Earth metaphor that addresses one having “the weight of the world” on one’s shoulders. Barring that this is physically impossible, I understand the interpretation of the metaphor, and I think of you, Doctor McCoy. Not only do you carry the burden of the health status of all crew members of this ship, you also share the burdens of others. You carry Jim. I have observed you using your words, and liquors, and natural abilities to easily and naturally shift the weight off of the Captain’s shoulders and onto your own. He often leaves your encounters stepping lighter, and I note that your shoulders appear to lean lower. You bore the burden of my sorrows and ill health on Altamid, both physically and emotionally. I am stricken at the amount of weight that your human shoulders are able to bear.

You are a soundtrack.

The Enterprise is constantly consumed by a cacophony of noise. Engines, comms, turbolifts, voices, music, laughter, barked orders and footfall, at all hours, regardless of shift or time. As is typical, the longer we are aboard the ship, the quieter these sounds become, as though white noise in the background. Until you walk into a room, Doctor, or one should walk into your Medbay. The humming of tricorders and the hissing of hyposprays belong to you in my mind, and cannot become untangled. I fear that in the far future, when I am aged and withering, I will still be primed to expect the sound of your viscous drawl following any signature medical equipment frequency. Writing of your voice now, I can nearly hear it in my mind, as it stands out from all others. As you are nowhere near, I cannot actually hear you speaking and therefore the concept is illogical. I find, however, that I do not mind, as your specific intonation always breaks up the monotony of the white noise. 

You are an ocean.

The inhabitants of Vulcan were evolved to thrive in the dry heat of the atmosphere. As I am genetically half human, the hot sand and stale air were never quite comfortable; tolerable, of course, but I did not thrive in the environment as the others did with such ease. When I was seven Earth years old, I accompanied my Father on a mission to Starfleet Academy for the first time. During that mission, I encountered the Pacific Ocean. The experience was wet, and cold, and the memory shone a deep blue and bronze in my mind when I recalled it later, back home on Vulcan, trying to find reprieve in the familiar heat of the planet. I would imagine swimming to the unknown depths of the body of water, being surrounded by the secrets and mysteries that the Ocean held. When I look at you, I see the deep Ocean blue in your uniform against the bronze of your skin. I see secrets, depth, and mystery. When in your company, I am reprieved. 

You are a puzzle.

As my Vulcan heritage dictates, I am extremely intelligent and logical. Puzzles and problems that stump most others barely require a flickering of my neurological system to solve. However, Doctor McCoy, you present yourself as a puzzle that I have been unable to complete. You spit insults in my direction as quickly as you can think of them, yet I experience nothing but warmth and friendly challenge in your words. You stated that you would throw a party should I leave the Enterprise, however, the expression in your eyes indicated that it pained you physically to let the joke leave your lips. You acted horrified at the revelation that I had given Nyota a necklace that contained a so-called ‘tracking device,’ and yet you knowingly wear its counterpart on a daily basis. When I presented the aforementioned gift to you as a token of my professed respect, your words came across as harshly resigned acceptance, yet you gripped my hand in both of yours and squeezed, a gesture that implies gratitude. I find all humans to be confusing at times; you, I find to be consistently perplexing. 

You are a Venus Fly Trap.

The Dionaea muscipula is a fascinating plant that originated on your home planet. I know you are aware, as you care for this species in the home that you have provided for them in your Medbay office. I do not intend to compare your qualities to the deadly qualities of the carnivore, so please do not become hastily offended, as you are want to do. I will endeavor to use situational explanation for this particular example. Last week, as I had completed Beta shift and was retiring to my quarters to meditate, I was swayed towards the direction of the recreation room by the sound of your loud and obnoxious laughter. There I found you and Mr. Chekov engaged in an Earth game called ‘Battleship,’ if I recall correctly. I attempted to assist you in using a simple mathematical formula to gain leverage over Mr. Chekov (which seemed only fair, as he was being assisted by Mr. Sulu and his wandering eyes). You were persistent in your refusal to allow for my logical and quick method of assistance, as it would “get in the way of the fun of it all.” I bickered with you for upwards of ten minutes. Ten minutes of completely illogical and pointless arguing, and yet I found that I could not step away. You had captivated me with your alluring colors and trapped me with nothing but strong will and the gnashing teeth of intriguing banter. I trust you will be able to draw the accurate comparison that I am building between yourself and the Dionaea muscipula. 

You are a friend.

As a child, I did not have friends, nor as an adolescent on Vulcan. It was not until I joined Starfleet Academy that I witnessed Earthling friendship, and yet, I still did not experience the phenomenon until the Captain befriended me. I am still uncertain of his reasoning for doing so, but I have learned that it is considered inelegant to press the issue. I now find myself belonging to a group of friends upon this ship, if the Earth dictionary definition is to be trusted. Jim is my friend. Nyota is becoming my friend once more, a title that I wish now I would never had cast aside in the search for something more. Hikaru, Pavel, Montgomery, Keenser; they are all individuals that I consider friends. And, of course, you, Doctor. Our banter, our mutual respect, our ability to both comfort and discomfit each other, the risks that we have taken for the other’s safety and wellness, and the general feeling of camaraderie that we share all indicate that between us exists the bond of friendship. However, when I think of that bond, I do not feel as though the human term of ‘friendship’ encapsulates what I wish to express. In Vulcan, there exists a different term: T’hy’la. The term itself is ambiguous at best, and can be interpreted as meaning friend, brother, lover, or a combination of the three. It is rare for a Vulcan to coin another with this term, and yet in my mind, T’hy’la has been a footnote attached to your name for an amount of time that I would not care to disclose at this precise moment. 

Finally, you are a chest cavity. 

In my studies related to writing a letter with the intention of sharing one’s feelings with another, I noticed a repeating trend present in most examples, of mentioning the heart. I do not believe you to be my heart, Doctor. However, I do believe that my metaphorical heart (a symbol of respect, deep affection, and longing) has found a dwelling space within you. I apologize if this concept is confusing to you, but in reality it is quite simple. When you are in close proximity to myself, this metaphysical rendition of my heart feels increasingly complete. When you are far, that feeling of completeness ebbs. It is quite unpleasant and yet, I am unsure if I would rid myself of this sensation if given the choice to do so. 

These are a number of the things which I consider you to be, Leonard. Over the years, my respect for you has grown substantially, and my desire to share a closer relationship with you has increased at a similar rate. As illogical as it may be, I have not the courage to say these things to you directly; therefore, I sincerely hope that my research regarding how to craft a proper love letter, as it is apparently called, was worthwhile. 

Respectfully, 

Commander Spock”

*

The pounding on the door of his quarters startled Spock out of his meditation. 

Expecting an emergency situation, as it was 0300 hours and whoever was banging on the door was clearly in enough distress to forget that there was an intercom for entry requests, Spock commanded the door to open immediately, rather than take the time to cross the room and manually permit entrance. 

If Vulcans could experience anxiety, Spock would identify that as the feeling that swept through his body at the sight of McCoy stepping into his quarters.

“What the hell is this?” It was impressive, the amount of veracity that McCoy managed to pack into one whispered sentence as he waved his glowing PADD around aimlessly. 

Spock did not stand, choosing instead to remain on his mat cross legged, across the room from his late night visitor, who had decided that keeping as close to the open door as possible was apparently the best course of action. 

Spock ensured that his voice did not waver. “As I am sure you know, Doctor, that is a Personal Access Displ-”

“I damn well know that it’s a PADD, Spock! Don’t fuck around with me, now’s not the time. I’m talkin’ about the correspondence that you sent me.”

There was a beat of silence, and Spock’s mouth felt suddenly dry. He licked his lips lightly, taking note of McCoy’s eyes following the action before flitting away. Spock stood quickly and easily, in case he would have to make either a quick retreat, or a quick advance. 

“I believe I explained quite clearly that it was intended to be a love letter.”

McCoy, to his credit, did not provide a telling reaction. Rather, he took a few steps forward, gently placing his PADD lightly onto the table in the center of the room. He ran his hands through his hair; he looked exhausted, Spock noticed.

“I am somewhat surprised that you were awake to receive my message so quickly. I sent it only 20 minutes ago. Were you still working, when you should be resting?”

McCoy made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “What of it? Too much to do. ‘sides, I was awake to get...this, so it’s not all bad. The sleep loss is worth it, I s’pose.”

Spock’s fingers tingled. “Not all bad? Worth it? It almost sounds like you enjoyed my...correspondence.” 

McCoy’s lips quirked at the corners. Spock could practically feel his skin flush green as his heart began to beat slightly faster. 

“You could say that, Spock, yeah.” McCoy stepped closer, until he was standing directly in front of the blushing Vulcan. With a gentleness that Spock hadn’t known that McCoy was capable of, he reached out and slid his hands into Spock’s. 

Spock shivered.

“It all made sense, by the way. This all makes sense, been waitin’ for this part to come, but your words and your fancy metaphors, they all made sense to me, too. Not sure why you had to doubt my intelligence multiple times in a love letter. Also, you and me, we’re gonna have to have a discussion about you callin’ me a ‘satisfactory’ physician,” McCoy shook his head sternly at Spock when he began to protest, “but that can wait until later.” McCoy leaned forward, crowding Spock, and rested their foreheads together. 

“Later?” Spock inquired, sounding breathless even to himself. He tried to focus on McCoy’s eyes, a task made difficult by their closeness. 

“Yeah, later, Hobgoblin. Right now, this second, I want you to say out loud that...what you called me, in your letter.” 

Spock swallowed.

“T’hy’la,” he whispered. Even so close, he could see McCoy’s pupils grow wider, blacker. 

“Again. Say it again.”

Spock reveled in the sound of McCoy’s voice, broken and gravelly. 

“You, Leonard, are my T’hy’la.”

Spock felt McCoy’s hot breath against his own lips as he growled. “Tell your door to shut itself, Spock.”

Spock complied.


End file.
